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"SWEAR    Sr    THE    HORN'

smile of destruction,, look far past the heads of the
spectators and on into the eternal depths of tradi-
tion which lie behind the terrible spirit of the war-
dance.

"That spirit is born in the Indian blood. Even
we youngsters could feel It tingling our blood to
action as our fathers jerked their shoulders and
chanted: 'May we have an easy victory. May
the enemy sleep long and deep/

Then they would throw Into the air big chunks
of wood, and catching them on their lances they
would shout: 'May we thus act with our enemies;
may we toss them as brush on our spear-points!*

And so, as the night went on, our fathers would
continue to dance the dance of death; and we
children would be put to bed with the wild,
haunting music of the war-song surging through
our beings and urging us on to the adventures
that our fathers had experienced.

Long before daylight the next morning we
would hear the 'camp crier' going through the
camp shouting: 'It is the word of your chief.
Move! Move! Move!5 That was the signal to
strike camp. We youngsters were the first ones
up. Out under the cold, starry heavens we
would dash, helping our mothers to remove the
skins from the teepee and roll them into big round
bundles, to be packed on the backs of our horses.

By the time the first streaks of dawn commenced

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